Dark Trails
by Sister-to-the-Queen
Summary: This is what happens when a rabid plotbunny is put down with a rusty hatchet. I regret nothing
1. Chapter 1

_Hello, everyone reading this! This is the first chapter of _Dark Trails_, my first foray into horror writing._

_First up, I want to say that I blame everything on Hekateras. She's the one who put up a plotbunny on Tumblr and then allowed me to do something with it. The plotbunny was:_

_"Guys, guys! You know how the Slender Man is actually a creation of some bored people with Photoshop on the Something Awful forums?_

_…And you know how there's this generally pervading theme in fiction, and Good Omens especially, that Belief can change reality (all those milli-Alps pile up quickly), up to and including sustaining and creating gods and such?_

_…What if Crowley helped start the Slender Man mythos for kicks…_

_…And then it actually became real, because so many people THOUGHT he was real?_

_…And then Az and Crowley had to go and check it out and stuff, only their powers didn't work on him, because there's no element in the mythos that says angelic or demonic powers can work on him…_

_…Someone needs to write this. If nobody does, I might, but I have literally zero experience in horror, unless you count that disturbing Order of the Stick fanfic I wrote once, and I don't know when I'll get around to it even if I do."_

_And then I took over. So this is entirely her fault._

_As the bunny says, this is a _Good Omens_/Slender Man crossover. If you are unfamiliar with Slender Man, or would like to know more about the thing, please visit the Wiki here: slenderman . wikia wiki/ The_Slender-Man_Wiki_

_If you'd like some mood music, there's a bit of soundtrack on my profile page._

_For cover art, please go here: sister-to-the-queen . deviantart #/ d5bgajd_

_Warnings: extreme blood and gore, body horror, macabre concepts, language. Rating may be subject to change._

_Disclaimer: _Good Omens _belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. The Slender Man Mythos belongs to the strange, strange internet people who came up with it. No copyright infringement or personal profit was intended with the writing of this story._

_Dedicated, with the utmost respect, to Junji Itou, master of Japanese horror._

–––

**_Dark Trails_**

_Chapter One_

_–––_

Aziraphale came back in from the kitchen, and set another bottle of wine down on the table. "Now then, dear," he said as he worked out the cork, "tell me again what happened, a bit more coherently this time, please."

"'Sssss like I sssaid," Crowley hissed, staring gloomily at his half-empty glass. "Kidsss dissssappearing, parentssss going bonkerssss with fear, whole country in a ssstate of panic. You know all that already, you've sssseen the paperssss." He tossed back the rest of his wine. "I've sssscrewed it all up. More," he added, setting the glass down hard.

Aziraphale put the cork back in the bottle, set it aside, then reached out and patted Crowley's hand. "Now, dear boy, calm down, do. I haven't heard you hiss like that in years. Whatever is happening, I'm sure it can be set right again. Now then: from the beginning?"

At this, Crowley looked up and met Aziraphale's eyes. After a brief pause, he said, "You're just as scared as I am, angel, don't try to deny it. Well, you should be!" he continued before Aziraphale could reply. "It was just a joke, for Somebody's sake! A joke! I thought, start up a new urban legend, target it towards children, scare the daylights out of them so they'll whine and whine at their parents to let them stay up late and, and leave the lights on and so they'll wake up their parents in the middle of the night! I wanted general low-grade annoyance, not... not something killing kids!"

Aziraphale started violently. "Crowley!"

"Don't Crowley me, Aziraphale, you know I'm right!" Crowley sprang up from his chair and started pacing up and down the little back room. "Over a dozen children gone missing in under a fortnight, no-one's seen or heard anything, police can't find a trace, they're just gone! They're gone, and they're dead, because that's what urban legends _do_! They kill things!"

"But this makes no sense!" Aziraphale exclaimed, standing up so fast his chair almost fell over. "Humans have been crafting urban legends ever since they built their very first cities, in Mesopotamia! You and I both know that, we were there! And that's all they've ever been: legends, stories, figments of the imagination! Why would this one be any different?"

Crowley had stopped pacing during Aziraphale's tirade. "Maybe..." he began. He slowly turned towards Aziraphale with a decidedly pained look on his face. "You know how, for every wile, I use a little demonic energy, right?"

Aziraphale nodded, frowning; he didn't like the direction this was taking.

"Well then, there you are!" Crowley said, smiling now in a way Aziraphale couldn't bear to see. "My fault. I did it. I charged it up and then I set it loose, zow, like a bullet from a gun. It's like the M25 all over again, only about a hundred times w-"

Aziraphale caught Crowley by the shoulders and gave him a sound shake. "Crowley, stop it! Look at me!" When Crowley did, stunned, Aziraphale continued more quietly, "Dear, I don't know what's going on here, but I do know that none of the blame is at your door. How could you have possibly foreseen any of this happening? You couldn't have, obviously, else you'd never have done it. I know you. Now," and he let go of Crowley, "do you have any idea where the... the creature might be?"

Crowley didn't immediately answer, but a slow grin spread over his face. "Aziraphale, I swear you're -"

Aziraphale smiled for a moment. "Never mind that right now, my dear. The creature?"

"Well..." Crowley pulled a brand-new map from his pocket and went to spread it open on the table. He pointed at the south-west of England, between the South-West Peninsula and Wales. "All the disappearances've been in this area. I've put a dot for each one. Look at what's at the centre of the dots."

Aziraphale did so, and blinked. "Gwaed Forest? There's... There's no such place in England."

"There is now."

They looked at each other.

"When do we leave?"

"Right now."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Look, everyone! Fanart for Chapter One by Lunissa!_

_lunissa. deviantart gallery/ #/ d5jqxea  
lunissa. deviantart gallery/ #/ d5jqxxi_

_Thank you._

_–––_

_Chapter Two_

_–––_

They'd been driving west for about an hour, breaking every conceivable speed limit, when Aziraphale broke the increasingly tense silence by saying, "Crowley?"

"Hng?"

"That map of yours... How can that new forest be on there, and so soon, too? You and I had dinner at that nice little fish restaurant in Weston-super-Mare a mere month ago, and the area was all rolling fields then..."

"Get to the point, will you, angel," snapped Crowley, turning off the motorway onto an unmarked road. "This is neither the time nor the place for small talk."

"Dear, will you please calm down? I am not trying to make small talk. All I mean to say is that I don't understand how the humans were able to accept this new forest springing up overnight, as it were, so easily that they immediately began adjusting their maps accordingly. Why was there no shock, no surprise, no mention in the newspapers whatsoever? Why, I'd never even heard of the place until you showed it to me."

"I know, angel, I know, all right?" Crowley answered, gripping the steering wheel. "I've been looking into this for days now, and that's one of the things that bothers me most. Everybody's acting like the da- the blasted place has always been there. I dropped into a travel-book shop yesterday, flipped through a guide to Somerset, and there it was, right there, Gwaed Forest. When I pointed it out to the salesman and asked what the blazes, he looked at me like I was drunk."

"Whereupon...?"

"I bought the book and the map -"

"You actually paid for them?"

"I was distracted, okay?" The macadam turned to an uneven dirt track under the Bentley's wheels. "I went to my flat and obsessed over the bloody things _and_ all the TV news reports about the disappearances till I came over to you this evening." He blessed aloud when the Bentley hit a pothole.

Aziraphale shook his head, eyes unfocused. "That... And you believe we'll be able to stop... all of that?"

"'Course," Crowley answered, voice just a tad too airy for it to be natural. "I did it, I can undo it. And if I can't bring it off on my own, the two of us together will have no trouble at all, right, angel?"

Aziraphale eyed him doubtfully. "If you say so, my dear."

"Good, good," said Crowley as the Bentley bumped to a halt. "We're here."

–––

"A chain-link fence? Was that mentioned in your guidebook?"

Crowley shook his head. "Not a word."

Aziraphale took out the torch he'd brought, and shone it left and right along the fence. "Not a gate in sight. D'you suppose we should simply climb over?"

Crowley shrugged. "Sure. No sense in wasting time looking for the entrance. And don't waste the batteries in that thing. You can't see in the dark like I can."

"Don't worry, dear," said Aziraphale, but switched off the torch nonetheless. "I put in fresh ones right before we left."

"All right, then." Crowley walked up to the fence and slid over in a matter of seconds. He looked back at Aziraphale. "Your turn."

It took them several minutes, along with plenty of grunting, strain, and false starts, but at last Aziraphale was on the other side. "Thank you for helping me over, dear; I honestly don't think I'd ever have made it on my own. It was also very kind of you to break my fall like that."

"Angel, either get off, or stop enjoying chocolate so much. Preferably the former."

"Oh, of course, sorry." Aziraphale scrambled up off the demon, who was on his feet again before Aziraphale could reach out a hand to help him.

"Right," said Crowley, looking along the narrow path disappearing among the trees. "After you."

"Oh? Why do you want me to go first, pray?"

Crowley grinned. "When have you ever known me do that? Seriously, though, you need that torch to see ahead of you, and that wouldn't do you any good if you were right behind me. You'd have to walk backwards all the time to keep an eye on what was behind us, and that wouldn't be all that practical either, and -"

"And you're not making any sense, dear," Aziraphale interrupted him. "I fail to see why I can't just leave my torch off and follow you, since you can see perfectly well in the dark." Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "What's the real reason you want me to go first?"

Crowley fidgeted. "It's... Well... Oh, all right, I admit it. I don't want anything jumping you from behind, where you can't see it coming. Happy?"

Aziraphale was beaming entirely too brightly to still need that torch. "Oh, Crowley, I _knew_ you -"

"Shut up, angel."

"- but I couldn't possibly accept -"

Crowley turned him round and pushed him along down the path.

–––

"Crowley?"

"Yes?"

"We've been walking straight ahead for ten minutes now, and the only thing we've encountered so far is a collapsed mineshaft. Do you know where exactly we're going?"

"Not... really, no. I just assumed we'd find something if we kept walking long enough."

"And when we do?"

"Assess the situation, then act. That should work."

"You don't have a plan at all, do you."

"Nope. You?"

"Not in the slightest." A pause, then, "Do you think we should... split up, to cover more ground?"

Crowley jerked to a halt, grabbed Aziraphale's shoulder, and turned him to face him. "You're saying you actually _want_ to be alone in this place?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Then don't talk nonsense, angel. We are not splitting up. Period."

Reassured, Aziraphale turned and moved on, Crowley's hand still on his shoulder. "I've been thinking, dear: perhaps you were being a mite too pessimistic earlier, and those children are still alive and are simply being kept somewhere in these woods."

"...you really think so, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale smiled briefly. He always did like it when Crowley said his name. "Yes, dear, I do. We may be able to find and rescue them all yet, wouldn't that be wonderful?"

No answer, and the pressure of Crowley's hand was suddenly gone from his shoulder. Aziraphale stopped, fighting down the inexplicable feeling of dread rising in his gut.

"Crowley? Are you there, dear?"

Still nothing. Aziraphale spun round, shone the torch in every direction. Nothing.

No Crowley.

He was alone.

"...dear?"


	3. Chapter 3

_Look, guys! Fanart for Chapter Two by Jean-Claude17!_

_jean-claude17. deviantart #/ d5k2utk  
jean-claude17. deviantart gallery/ # d5lhf1d_

_Thank you!_

_–––_

_Chapter Three_

_–––_

Crowley couldn't see anything.

His spine, broken upon impact, had immediately knit itself back together, so he knew that at least _some_ passive demonic abilities were still working, but he couldn't see anything.

"Aziraphale?"

He considered taking off his sunglasses, then rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. They'd never hindered him at all before, so why should taking them off help him now?

"Aziraphale? Are you there?"

He got up off the ground (packed earth, it felt like when he touched it, hard as rock) and tried to feel out his surroundings. At once, on both sides of him, his hands encountered solid stone, rough as sandpaper, but impossible to scale, continuing up as high as he could reach. The underground corridor he was apparently in couldn't be more than two feet wide, if that.

Crowley felt his heartbeat pick up. Pathetic as it was for a demon, a snake demon to boot, he'd never been fond of closed spaces. He reached behind him. There was a wall there, too. He looked up. No light, not a speck. He stopped breathing, made his heart pause. Silent as the grave.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. He wasn't... Oh no... He wasn't trapped in a stone pit, was he?

"Aziraphale! For fuck's sake, if you're there, say something!"

He dashed forward a few yards, and to his immense relief, encountered no more walls. So it was a corridor, after all. One good thing, at least.

"Azira..." Oh, stop being so childish, he told himself. Aziraphale clearly wasn't here, else he'd have answered him at the first call.

Another good thing, that, actually. Whatever it was that had snatched Crowley out of the forest, wrapping around him and covering his mouth before he'd had a chance to cry out, and then thrown him down a hole, it hadn't caught Aziraphale yet. The angel was still free, and if he was crafty, as Crowley knew he could be, he would stay that way. Crowley would just follow the corridor to wherever it led, and they'd meet up again in no time, he was sure of it. Corridors always had exits, didn't they? And he'd met the urban legend, in a sense; that was something, too.

Crowley started walking, whistling a tune as he went.

Things would be fine.

He just hoped Aziraphale was all right.

–––

"Dear! Where are you?"

Rustle, rustle.

"Crowley, stop it! This is not funny!"

Rustle, rustle, cree-eek.

"_Crowley!_"

This was impossible, Aziraphale hadn't heard any footsteps moving away, Crowley couldn't have gone anywhere, besides, he'd been dead against their splitting up, and he couldn't have gone off the path either, because the trees -

Wait.

Those trees...

Those trees were almost too close together to let even Crowley-as-a-serpent pass between them. Yet only a few moments ago, when last he'd aimed his torch at them, Aziraphale, hardly snake-thin, could have moved among them with ease.

Oh, God.

Rustle, shff, shff, rustle, crackle.

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, and he could hardly breathe for fear, "where _are_ you?"

Snap.

A twig, right behind him.

Very slowly, Aziraphale turned around.

Then he saw.

His torch flickered and died.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

_–––_

The tune had died on Crowley's lips after only a few bars. Rather than fend off the dead quiet as it should have done, it was as if the sound of his whistling had only... drawn it closer, as though the subterranean silence, hungry for sound, had wanted to soak it up like a sponge, slowly suffocating Crowley as it did so. Much easier on the lungs to simply keep still.

He'd been walking at the same steady pace for several minutes now, and it seemed to him, as he trailed his right hand along the wall, that the corridor, or tunnel, or whatever it was, was starting to curve, ever so slightly, to the right. And were his senses playing tricks on him in the dark, or was the floor not quite horizontal anymo-

Crowley stepped on something, lost his balance, and caught the walls just in time to keep from landing flat on his face. Hissing in annoyance, he took a few steps back - he didn't dare turn around lest he lose his feeble bearings and head back the way he'd come - knelt down, and began feeling about on the floor. At first, he only felt earth, a bit less hard than before, but then his fingers encountered a kind of fabric. Wool. Underground? Odd, to say the least.

He got up with the object in his hand, moving his fingers over it. Wool, yes. A tiny body, arms and legs, but no head. A decapitated doll in an underground tunnel. Remarkably heavy for what it was, too. Crowley frowned, distinct unease rising. This wasn't normal. Nothing here was, granted, but this was _freakishly_ not normal. What in...

Just then, Crowley remembered something. He put a hand in his pocket. Maybe, if he was lucky... Yes! A book of matches he'd taken from their table at the Ritz the last time he and Aziraphale had dinner there. He flipped it open, ran his thumb over the rather long matches, and discovered that there were three.

Ah.

That pack had been full when he took it, and he hadn't used any of the matches.

Right.

Okay.

He got out one of the matches and tried to will it to burn. It didn't. Gritting his teeth, Crowley lit a match one-handed - sometimes it really paid to be a snake - and the little flame was a huge comfort. The sight of the doll wiped out the feeling at once. Crowley looked at it more closely, and faint nausea took comfort's place. There, on the neck near where the head should be, surely that wasn't... With one of his free fingers, Crowley poked the doll, and a big, round drop, shining red in the light of the flame, welled up from the neck hole.

Match and doll hit the ground in the same spot, one after the other, and the stench of burning flesh and wool, like stale sweat and rotting animals and something more, followed after Crowley as he went racing down the corridor, fear of the living dark all that kept him from crying out.

For, to someone who'd lived in Hell, the smell of human flesh on fire was never hard to recognise.

–––

Aziraphale tripped over a rock, fell, and lay where he landed, on a thick layer of dead leaves, panting, coughing, and fighting for breath.

No, no no, he couldn't lie here, had to get up, had to keep running, _run_, had to keep ahead of that thing, had to find Crowley, had to -

A sharp stitch in his side cut off his train of thought. Whole minutes of sprinting, not, what was the phrase, not cut out for it, no, no, oh God, but _behind him_...

He managed to lean up on his elbows and peered over his shoulder, terrified of what he might see, and more terrified still when he saw nothing there at all. The crescent moon - hadn't it been almost full when they'd arrived at the forest's edge? - was curiously, almost unnaturally bright, showing him in clear outline that he'd dropped into a clearing, dominated by a huge, leafless tree looming over him. But that very brightness threw the shadows in sharper relief, and the opening into the clearing was nothing but darkness, that Aziraphale's eyes could not penetrate, no matter how he strained them. That face that was not a face was out there somewhere, and for aught Aziraphale knew, it was watching him right n-

A pale oval appeared in the dark.

Aziraphale's limbs locked up and he went numb, paralysis seizing him even as his mind shrieked at him to get up, get out, spread your wings, you idiot, fly, fly, _fly_!

A split second, and then the big, pale, oval leaf blew into the clearing and landed on his chest. He swept it away, half-hysterical giggles bubbling out of him. He clapped his hand over his mouth and bit his tongue, but his shoulders wouldn't stop shaking. A few forced deep breaths through the nose, control returned, and he got up, legs recovered just enough to bear him. He wanted to spread his wings and fly, search the area from above, but the wings wouldn't come out.

His wings wouldn't come out.

They were there, they felt fine, but they wouldn't come out.

All right.

Stay calm.

Don't panic.

Concentrate.

Don't. Don't look at that opening anymore. No. Turn your back on it. Yes. Walk around the tree. Very good. Keep going. Keep going. And whatever you do, don't look back.

Aziraphale managed, just barely, to carry out the first two points in the plan. But when he was halfway around the tree, he noticed that it was almost completely hollow. Indeed, it was impossible to miss that huge gash from top to bottom, disappearing right into the ground. The moon shone directly into it, illuminating every inch of the gash and a good deal of the pit, but Aziraphale could not see the bottom of it. No lightning could possibly have done this, and this was no natural growth either, so what could have caused it, Aziraphale wondered.

Truly remarkable how thinking on such trivial matters could calm the mind.

There was a small piece of paper stuck in a crack in the wood. Aziraphale took it and read, in a child's unsteady hand:

MUMMY DADDY HELP WHERE

A child.

The children

Those poor little ones.

In the hands of that thing.

Just like Crowley.

Aziraphale folded up the paper, and tucked it carefully into his breast pocket.

He walked on, into the tree-lined tunnel opposite the one he'd come from. It curved slightly to the left, it seemed.

There was a faint rustle, somewhere far behind him.

He did not look back.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

_–––_

As he proceeded further into the tunnel, it seemed to Crowley that the air was, impossibly, getting warmer and yet more stifling, and that the tunnel's rightward curve was becoming more and more pronounced. It reminded him of being coiled up as a snake, the coils becoming smaller and smaller and tighter and tighter from the tail on the outside to the head in the middle. Crowley had some very pleasant memories about being curled up like that, but those only made his current situation worse by contrast. So, he was heading towards the heart of a spiral, eh? Very well, as long as there really was an exit there, else he'd probably snap. Being trapped in this dark place forever... No. Just... no.

The ground really was starting to slope down, too, he thought, determined to focus on something else. And it kept getting softer: right now it was like walking in wet sand, sinking in a fraction of an inch with every step. Wet earth, fine, but where was the moisture coming from? He hadn't heard any sound of dripping water - or any sound at all, for that matter, apart from his own footsteps - and it couldn't be coming up from the ground, could it, so where...

He kicked against something, and heard it land a short distance away, with lots of little tinkling sounds, shocking in the silence. Crowley deliberated for a moment, then got down on his knees and put out a questing hand, wary of what he might find.

It turned out to be a bit of string, attached to a small canvas bag. Crowley shook it, and heard the tinkling sound again. He undid the string, reached into the bag, and brought out a small, cold ball. He tapped it with a fingernail, and discovered that it was glass. So he'd come across a bag of marbles. Nothing sinister about that, except for its location. It was as innocuous as could be, and Crowley wasn't reassured by this in the slightest.

He dropped the marble back into the bag, fished around some more, and froze.

He'd felt something squishy. Cold and round, but wet and squishy. He took it out, and sat without moving for a minute.

He didn't want to know. He absolutely _did not want_ to see what was between his fingers right now. And yet, the not knowing, but suspecting all the same... that was even worse. With fingers that were not quite steady anymore, he lit his second match.

He stared at the squishy marble, and the squishy marble, red-veined white with a coloured ring and a black spot at the centre of it, stared back at him.

He flung marble and match away behind him, snatched up the bag, sent it after them, and ran as though his feet were on fire, knocking and hurting himself against the curving walls, and not caring.

This time, despite the air, he could scream.

–––

The path between the close-set trees was curving more and more to the left. It reminded Aziraphale of the times Crowley fell asleep with his head in Aziraphale's lap, then turned into a snake in his sleep, to savour the warmth more. Aziraphale would often pet him then, all coiled up, outward, from the head to the tail. He smiled. It was a warming thought, and a nice way to distract himself from the rustling and creaking that came after him, ever closer. From that, and from the growing urge, pricking and twitching in the back of his neck, to turn his head and look behind him.

He would not. He absolutely would not. To see it, even to look for it, would be to fear it more, and to fear it more would be to give it more power to instil fear. Right? Either way, Aziraphale would not turn, and that was that.

On one side of the path, a few trees stood back a little, and where they would have normally been, there was a ditch, about three feet long and one foot wide. Aziraphale stopped, fought down the stab of fear the act gave him, and looked into the ditch. Even though the moon - a half moon now, for reasons Aziraphale didn't even pretend to understand - was, again, dazzlingly bright and shining directly into the hole, there was no bottom to it that Aziraphale could see. There was, however, a piece of paper under a rock by the side of the ditch. Aziraphale bent down and picked it up. In a different, but equally childlike hand, it read:

SCARED DARK AFTER ME

Aziraphale folded up the paper as carefully as he'd done the first one, and put it in his pocket as well. A cold anger was rising up inside him, pushing against the terror under his skin. It was not anger towards Crowley, who had never wanted this: it was all for the being that had taken on a life of its own and done these deeds.

It could not and would not be allowed to continue. Aziraphale would not allow it to continue. He would find Crowley, they would find and free the children, and finish this thing off. Permanently.

A massive creak rippled through the trees around him, and it sounded like the cracking of bones. An attempt to cover up the still-approaching rustling, perhaps?

Aziraphale stubbornly went on walking, his fear still fighting to quench the steely-frosty fire of his anger, and not succeeding, however close it came. It was too late for it to win now. But...

Aziraphale cast a glance at the blue-black sky above, with its chilly moon staring down, shivered, and pulled his coat more tightly round him. The temperature was really starting to drop.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

_–––_

Crowley stumbled and finally stopped running. He leaned against the wall for support, the metallic tang of exhaustion sharp in his mouth. Hard to draw breath; the air was so heavy and warm. Only now that his legs had given out, did it register with him that they hurt. From being forced to keep moving through that sucking mud, no doubt, as thick as the air.

Curse this place.

No. No need. It was already cursed.

The children were all dead, no question. Grabbed by the whatever-it-was, brought into that twisted forest that shouldn't even exist, thrown down a hole and killed. Killed? If only. That flesh and that eye... Those hadn't been wholly dead. They were still alive, in a way, trapped forever in their own toys. It was mad, completely insane, but it was so. Even Hell had never come up with anything so sick.

But, judging by the results, Crowley had.

He swallowed down bile. No, no, he hadn't. He hadn't. Like he'd told Aziraphale, he had not wanted this. A bunch of frightened children and irritated parents, that was all he'd been aiming for. That wasn't so bad, was it? Things like that even tended to make good memories for the people involved to look back on. How could something so good... bad... _whatever_, have gone so wrong? What had triggered it?

Crowley wanted to go back. He wanted to go and see to it that those poor remains didn't go on living, and then bury them, if he could, do that for them, at least, make some kind of amends. But he wouldn't: there was no time for that now. The shape of the tunnel, bent like a banana, told him he was close to the core of the problem, and getting there had first priority. The children already here were lost; now he had to make sure that no more fell into the trap. He'd never be able to live with himself if he failed. He'd never be able to look Aziraphale in the eyes again, either.

Aziraphale... Where was he now? Looking for him? Trapped somewhere else? Didn't matter. Crowley _would_ find him, eventually, and they _would_ fix this and then get out of here, the two of them. Else what was the point?

Crowley hadn't taken five steps when he knocked his forehead against something. Oh no, not _another_ one of those things. With extreme reluctance, he reached up to feel what it was. A box. Metal frame, glass sides, hinges of a little door, a perforated top. An old-fashioned child-sized lantern?

Right, and where was the catch _this_ time?

He felt for the cord the lantern was dangling from - what that cord was attached to in turn, Crowley was past wondering - and touched something thin and slimy. A... A _worm_? Crowley snatched his hand back, revolted. No, wait. It had been... pulsing? He felt it again. Yes. Yes, it was. So then... Then...

In one swift movement, Crowley grabbed hold of the lantern and tore it loose, snapping the thin cord as he did so. The two halves of it swung back and forth, and a splash of liquid, lukewarm and nowhere near congealed, splattered on his hands. He listened, for a moment, to the sound of two series of thick drops plopping into the mud, before he turned around, doubled over, and threw up where he stood.

He barely even felt the sudden wave of cold, gone as soon as it had come, or the light twinge in his back. If he had, once again, he would not have cared.

–––

Even with his camel hair coat on, it was all Aziraphale could do to keep his teeth from chattering. But this was absurd, it was only September! Even at night, it shouldn't be this cold yet. Honestly though, Aziraphale didn't mind all that much: the cold around him was no match for that of the still-growing rage within him.

Oh, what Aziraphale wouldn't give for his flaming sword right now. He'd even trade a book if he could have it for just one hour. This whole forest would be kindling if he could. And as for that thing that was all but breathing down his neck by now... It would be _ribbons_.

If one wanted to stay healthy around Aziraphale, there were only a few simple rules to follow. Foremost among these were, in no particular order: one, do not molest books, two, do not harm children, and last but not least, do not touch Crowley. Two of these rules had been broken, and it was no exaggeration to say that there would be Hell to pay in return.

The path with its very distinct leftward curve opened into another clearing, where the gibbous moon, very, very bright, shone straight down upon a half-ruined stone well. There was a thin bit of smooth-looking cord hanging from the well's rotting wooden roof, but it fell down from sight as Aziraphale approached. Oh, well. Probably nothing.

As Aziraphale had been expecting, there was a bit of paper stuck between two stones of the well. This time, it read:

DOWN THERE PLEASE NO

Down there?

Oh.

_Oh._

Aziraphale could have _kicked_ himself. To come across two such places, three even, and yet completely fail to make the connection until it was practically spelt out for one! How could he have been such a _fool_?

Down there. That's where they'd all ended up.

All of them.

The children.

Crowley.

The children.

Crowley.

The chi-

With a howl of fury, Aziraphale stormed across the clearing and onto the final part of the path. The forest could creak and crack until it broke itself to pieces, that thing could stalk and rustle until the moon came down, but neither one or the other would get in the way...

...or last much longer.

Unwise it was to enrage an angel, for to do so was to call up the flame.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

_–––_

No amount of scrubbing at his hands with his handkerchief could take away the nauseating feel of what had been on them. It was like it had burnt itself into his skin.

The heat was stifling now, and the air thick enough to cut with a knife, so much so that Crowley had stopped breathing altogether. It wasn't a tropical heat or anything, no, he'd have liked that: it was the stinking heat generated by large animals packed far too close together in far too small a space. Disgusting.

With every step Crowley took, his shoes splashed in the inch-deep liquid that was steadily flowing down. Yes, down, for the tunnel was sloping so much now that it was like descending a hill; he had to be careful not to slip and fall. The mere thought of what it was he would be landing in if he did made his stomach twist in on itself. And that wasn't the only thing.

He'd used his last match to light the fresh candle inside the small lantern, and for several minutes now, the smell of slowly-burning human fat was stuffing up his nose. Crowley knew it well enough: it was a punishment reserved for some of the worst types, down in Hell. But when he considered just whose fat that candle was actually made from...

Well. The fact that his stomach was already empty was the only thing that kept him from being sick again. But he could not afford to extinguish that candle: if he did, he'd be in the dark, permanently, and who knew where he'd end up then? There wasn't much burning time left in it, besides, so he had to make the most of it while it lasted.

Still, all this he could have put up with, if not for those maddening noises. The first, a slow dripping noise, like the constant, regular sound he heard when he made himself a cappuccino, had started when Crowley had severed that... cord... and it hadn't stopped since, moving around all the time, behind him, in front, to the right, never staying in one place. He was beginning to suspect it was actually in his head.

The second noise, however, was most definitely not in his head. It was like the thudding of an old generator, thump-_thump_, thump-_thump_, so powerful that he could feel it through the soles of his feet. And both noises kept getting louder.

Finally, and so abruptly that it took him a few seconds to fully realise it, Crowley reached the tunnel's end. The thudding, strong enough now to make his skeleton vibrate, and the dripping sound, multiplied and amplified into a low roar like a waterfall's, told him he'd come upon a gigantic cave, which his feeble lantern couldn't possibly hope to illuminate. Incredibly, the first thing he felt was a huge rush of relief. No more cramped tunnels, no more feeling like the walls were closing in: an open space at last. Underground, granted, but still open. "Hello?" he said, but his voice was completely lost in the echoes.

So intent was Crowley, as he moved into the cave, upon studying what little he could make out of his surroundings and upon trying to glimpse the ceiling, that he failed to notice that the spot where he wanted to set his foot down next was only thin air.

He slipped off the edge, twisted round in mid-air, seized the edge of the hole, and pulled himself up out of there before his hands could lose their grip. He was on all fours on the edge now, fingers dug deep into the sludge, facing the way he'd come from, shaking with live-wire terror, and not just from his near-fall.

In the split second when his lantern, fallen from his grasp, had illuminated part of the rim of the pit, Crowley had seen it: there really was a waterfall, but not of water. All along the circumference, it was falling slowly and steadily down, down, down, running in countless dripping streams over the floor and into the hole.

But... But how could there be so many _tunnels_? They'd have to criss-cross and overlap all over the place but they didn't, they couldn't, he'd have noticed, he'd kept a hand on the wall the whole time, it was _solid_, no other openings, so where...?

Never mind. Just never mind. They could be in other dimensions or other times, for all Crowley cared. Right now, he was sure of one thing and one thing only: there was one single heart to the nightmare, and it was here, in its centre. If that were destroyed... But first to learn what it was.

Very, very carefully, Crowley turned on hands and knees, and peered over the edge, his whole body poised to keep from pitching forward. There was a faint, reddish glow from where his unbroken lantern lay. The pit couldn't be very deep at all, then, but Crowley still couldn't see just what was there.

Ah, now it was clear why not, in that faint glow: his sunglasses were... smudged.

He took them off and, in the few feet of that circle of flickering light, Crowley saw the source of the thumping, as vast as the cavern itself. His sunglasses fell from his hand.

Rising, and falling, rising, and falling, in constant, measured rhythm, like any healthy heartbeat.

Crowley's eyes couldn't have got any wider if he'd tried.

"My God," he gasped.

–––

When Aziraphale skidded to a halt, the frozen air biting at him, he stood at the edge of a great, open space, fenced in by the trees. It was completely barren, with not a blade of grass or a single flower to be seen around the decrepit, yet strangely whole house in the middle, bathed in the light of the glaring full moon. That, Aziraphale knew, was his destination. He might not be able to spread his wings anymore at the moment, but the sense for evil that every angel was equipped with was still very much working, and the sight of that house had set it on fire.

He crossed the bare earth towards it, mounted the front steps, and nearly fell backwards off them. There, nailed at eye level to the front door, was a single, gleaming black feather, easily a foot long.

Crowley.

Not a piece of paper, this time.

Freezing, Aziraphale pulled out the nail and took the feather. He cradled it in his arms, running careful fingers along its edge, as gently as though he were touching scales instead. God willing, he'd soon be able to really do so again. He'd go mad if he couldn't, because then...

A tall, dark shadow came looming over him from behind, obscuring the light of the moon.

Unhurried, Aziraphale turned around, the feather still resting on his arm, and looked up at the blank, glistening oval set upon a stick-man body with tentacles of shifting shadow squirming and slithering about it. His lip curled in contempt, and he said calmly, "You think you can break me like this? If I knew for certain, having seen what I've seen, that this feather meant that Crowley was dead, I would rip you to shreds where you stand. Whether or not he was permanently dead would not change this, do you understand me? No, of course you don't. However, for all I know at this point, and unlike all the poor little things you've snatched away and killed, you twisted abomination, he is still alive. I will get to him first, and when I do, you will be dealt with either way. The only difference will be how long I will spend on it. Then, if indeed the worst has happened, _then_ I'll break. Now leave me alone."

Aziraphale turned his back on the thing, then reached out and lightly touched the door. Bolted and locked, it swung wide open.

Aziraphale went inside, and the door slammed shut behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

_Look everyone! Fanart for Chapter Seven, by Jean-Claude 17!_

_jean-claude17. deviantart gallery/ #/ d5lhqug_

_Thank you!_

_–––_

_Chapter Eight_

_–––_

Alive.

It was alive.

The dreadful, ever-so-slow sinking in of realisation...

Beating, pulsating.

Alive.

No matter how often one repeated it in one's mind, a shock to the system of that magnitude never fully sank in...

Pumping blood in rivers through gigantic veins, like tunnels of the London underground.

...which was understandable, all things considered...

So much blood, but it could never be enough...

...until...

...which meant that the thing had to be...

...it _clicked_.

...fed.

Crowley didn't scream. Such shrieking lunacy could not be responded to with sound. In the face of it, all there was to do was run, if one wished to save one's sanity.

Crowley ran. Slipping, falling, sliding back, scrambling frantically back up and rushing on, he reached the wall, avoiding, by some miracle, a head-first collision with it, hit a random tunnel and was off down it like a shot, not caring, not even considering where it would take him. The blank screen of sheer horror his mind had snapped into being was in no state for it. It hardly even registered with him when he knocked into a stone staircase in the pitch blackness and fell forward against it. His only reaction was to continue on up it, bruised, cut, and bleeding, running when he could, fumbling for the uneven steps on hands and knees when he couldn't, never stopping for a moment, blind in every way.

But he could still hear the thumping.

–––

Aziraphale moved through the house as fast as he could, his teeth chattering and his hands completely numb, looking everywhere and finding nothing. It was starting to drive him mad. The place was so appallingly... _normal_, just a very old-fashioned, very dusty, but perfectly tidy and impersonal wooden cottage, showing not a single trace of the atrocities that had taken place there. And Aziraphale knew that they had, right there: the feeling of evil, already so fiery-strong when he'd still been outside, in here was gnawing and scratching at his mind, making his head ache and his senses twitch.

Oh, curse that blasted too-bright moonlight, piercing into and slicing his eyes, even in here, curse that damnable worthless generator deep in the bowels of the house, that wouldn't bring power to a single light switch that might have weakened the moon, and curse, above all, the tentacled horror moving along outside the windows from room to room wherever Aziraphale went, taunting him, yes, taunting, because it knew, it _knew_, what it was that Aziraphale so desperately wanted to find, and where it was.

Aziraphale wished he could tear open the window, drag the thing inside, and force it, by any means necessary, to give out what it knew, where it had hidden Crowley and the children, but _that_ would be a fine thing to try: how could one make something talk that had no mouth to talk _with_? Quite. The whole situation made Aziraphale boil in spite of the cold.

He was back in the hallway now, where he'd started, facing a solid oak door, the only one he had not yet opened, and which was marked 'cellar'. Upon trying it, he found that it was locked.

Oh, of _course_, he thought, spinning round and marching across the room to beat a tattoo on the opposite wall in absolute exasperation, the only place that could still yield information was completely blocked off, because all of Aziraphale's active powers had been drained away, and there wasn't a single tool in the whole house that he could use to break open -

Eh?

The wall he was rapping against, it sounded... hollow.

Hollow? Meaning that there was a passageway behind it?

Yes! Oh _yes_! If Aziraphale could open a path to it, he might be able to make his way down to where he was supposed to go! The wall couldn't possibly be very thick or sturdy, it would be easy! Shaking with excitement, he drew back a few steps to ram his shoulder against it...

...when Crowley crashed through it from the other side in a cloud of dust and debris, bowled Aziraphale over and wrapped himself around him at once, arms and legs, before they'd even hit the ground. They landed with a thud, and Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley and nearly squeezed him to mush.

"Crowley! You're alive!"

"So are you!"

"Dear, you're burning up!"

"You're freezing!"

"Dear, you're..." His voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "You're absolutely covered in blood."

Crowley shivered and clung tighter. "Not mine," he whispered back.

"Oh thank G- _...what?_"

"Ssssss..."

"What happened, Crowley? Crowley? Are you all right?"

"...sssslow drip."

"Dear?"

"Angel?"

"Yes?"

"When we get home, remind me to smash my coffee machine."


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine_

_–––_

Aziraphale gaped at Crowley in complete horrified disbelief. "_How_ did you say those children died? And this place is _what_?"

"You heard me, Aziraphale, don't act like you didn't!" Crowley replied, twitching slightly and shooting nervous glances at the blocked-up tunnel and the now-curtained window. "In pieces! They went down a hole, and then they died in pieces! And not even all the pieces managed to completely die, so they're still alive down there, all right?"

No, a glance at Aziraphale's impossibly wide eyes and pale face told him, it was most definitely not all right. Crowley bit his lip, looked down at the kitchen table. "I'm sorry, um... If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure some of the... bits, the ones I didn't find, that is, are really dead, all the way, I mean, and resting in peace now. Probably buried out in the woods here and there, and... I'm not really helping, am I."

Aziraphale wiped his brow, and managed a shaky smile. "Not really, dear, no, but I do appreciate the effort." The smile faded when he continued, "And those poor little things d- met their end, you say, in order to feed their blood to a... heart under the earth? You did say that, yes?"

Crowley nodded. "Yes. A disembodied heart under the earth, about the size of a football field, and with veins and arteries to match. The former is not too far below our feet, and the latter are branched out all over the forest. I don't... even want to think about what's inside those." Almost instinctively, he reached for Aziraphale's hand, and felt a firm clasp back.

"Ah, but my dear..." Aziraphale sighed. "We have to think about it, I'm afraid. Consider: if, as you say, the blood in that, er, system has indeed been provided by hapless human sacrifices, then the few children who've disappeared so far -"

"Sixteen."

"- can't possibly account for it all. And, as I can scarcely imagine this... entity... having the capability of multiplying the blood a thousandfold -"

"A millionfold, more like."

"- the question is, how long has this been going on?"

Crowley blinked. "What? What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, dear, that the blood of literally thousands upon thousands of people must have served to nourish that thing, given its size, and that this has, therefore, been going on for a very, very long time, probably centuries, or even millennia."

"Centuries. Millennia," Crowley repeated tonelessly. "_This_ for centuries or millennia. And you can sit there and say that so calmly?"

"Calmly?" Aziraphale shut his eyes. "Crowley, dear, right now it's all I can do to keep from being sick where I sit. In fact, I'm not even sure I can fully grasp the implications of what I myself am saying."

Crowley frowned. "Are you okay?"

"No, but I'll be fine once this is over. Now, what do you think of it?"

"I think it's nonsense," Crowley answered promptly. "Like I just said, there've been sixteen disappearances since I came up with that d- blasted legend. Sixteen, no more, and that in under two weeks, not over dozens of centuries. That blood-multiplication thing is the only thing you've said so far that I could _potentially_ agree with."

"But who's to say you were the one who came up with that legend in the first place?"

Crowley glowered. "Angel, the fact that I'm sitting here like a schoolboy listening to you build up crack theories does not mean I've lost my mind completely. I still know what I do and don't do!"

Aziraphale sighed again. "I know that, dear, now please shush and listen for one moment more."

"Listening."

"Thank you, my dear. Now, tell me: have you ever read anything on old folklore?"

Crowley shook his head. "Nope. Heard a few stories over the years, but they've never really interested me."

"Well then, dear, you may not credit this, but I've read about that creature," here he gestured towards the window, beyond which the shadows danced, "several years ago, in a book called 'Folktales from Around the World'. I remembered it shortly before I reached this place."

Crowley stared. "...come again?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes. Germany, Eastern Europe, the pre- and post-Columbian Americas, the Aztec and Mayan Empires, ancient Egypt, even: practically all cultures have tales of that creature out there, and that includes the cultures of the British Isles."

"I..."

"And in nearly every single one of those stories, the basic pattern is the same: a child is told by his or her parents to stay indoors at night because it's dangerous out there, the child disobeys, disappears, and is found soon after, usually no later than the next day, mutilated and torn apart."

"But..."

"And _absolutely_ every single one of those stories blames the same type of creature for the crime: a tall, stick-thin, faceless thing in black, with too many arms, or rather tentacles, that -"

"Angel, stop!" cried Crowley. "This is... This is insane! I don't care how old those stories are or how much they're all alike, I made up that stupid urban legend out of whole cloth! I never even put in a description of the thing, it was just 'something that lurks outside the window'! I didn't even have an image of what it looked like myself until I saw it outside just now!" He dropped his head on his hand, eyes shut tight, and groaned. "How could a simple, innocent wile have turned into _this_?"

"It didn't, dear," Aziraphale said, very, very quietly, squeezing Crowley's hand. "How long have parents been afraid of losing their children? All your wile has done is give the creature a new avenue into bringing about just that, and it's latched itself right onto it. Even this forest and house came forth from it, a great, tangible, very real illusion. This thing has always had a life of its own, Crowley. You couldn't have known, and even if you had, you could not have helped it."

It was a while before either of them spoke again. During that time, with everything they'd learnt, sitting and holding hands and thinking was all that they were capable of. Even eye contact was too much. Finally, Crowley said, "So the heart is its master, then?"

"It... seems so, dear," Aziraphale answered. "Master, creator, I don't know, but whatever that heart is and wherever it came from, the creature outside exists only to serve it."

"Keep it fed and beating."

"Quite so."

"And... growing?"

Aziraphale shuddered. "Probably, yes."

"Well," said Crowley. "At least now we know why this place is named after the Welsh word for blood."

"I could have lived without learning that, Crowley."

"So could I."

There was a pause.

"So..." Crowley shifted a bit on his chair. "So you think this thing can manipulate minds?"

"Well, as far as you and I are concerned, it can only manipulate our senses, but as for humans, yes, and on quite a large scale, at that. That explains your map."

"My ma-" Crowley abruptly fell silent. He appeared to be frozen.

"Dear?"

"Aziraphale?" Crowley managed with difficulty. "Do you happen to have my map with you?"

"Yes, in my pocket. Why?"

"Fold it open on the table."

Looking somewhat puzzled, Aziraphale did so. "And now?"

Wordlessly, Crowley took out a pen, and carefully connected the dots marking the locations of the disappearances, linking them in two groups. "Look," he said then, simply.

Aziraphale stared at the dots and lines. Then a shiver ran down his spine, and he snapped his head up, eyes huge. "Spirals?"

"Mirroring spirals. One clockwise, one counter-clockwise."

"But... But those are... are..."

"Symbols of the abyss," Crowley muttered, eyes unfocused.

"...oh, Heaven, help us."

There was another long pause. Then Crowley said, "Well then." He looked up, at Aziraphale. "How do we kill it?"

The moon flicked off.


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten_

_–––_

"Angel? _Angel?_"

"Oh, bother, not this again."

"What do you mean, 'not this again'? What is going on? I can't see a thing! _Again!_"

"Neither can I, dear. I can only assume that the heart, or, possibly, its servant, overheard us and switched off the light to stop us."

"_Switched off the light?_ Aziraphale, the moon just gave out! That has got absolutely nothing to do with that heart! It's just a blo- It's just an oversized internal organ, it doesn't have ears, it doesn't have a brain, it can't do anything! What on Earth where you _drinking_ before I got here?"

"First of all, Crowley, I am stone sober, and secondly, the moon has been fluctuating in size ever since that thing took you away. It's like the forest: an illusion, to be manipulated at its creator's will. And this, finally, means that that internal organ does, in fact, have a brain of sorts."

"You... You're just... How can you not be afraid?"

"I _am_ afraid. I want to scream. But if we both lose our heads, what then? Mind you, I understand very well how horrible everything you've seen is, and my nerves would have been just as frayed as yours if it had been me down there instead, but you have to get a hold of yourself, dear. I can't do this alone."

"...all right, I'll... I'll try. But then... Nothing you've experienced so far has made you nervous at all?"

"Of course it has, dear. Merely thinking about what could have happened to those children or to you drove me nearly crazy with worry."

"...you were worried about me?"

"Of course, dear. Weren't you?"

"About you? No."

"Oh..."

"Because if I'd been worried about you, that would mean I'd have had to think about something bad happening to you, and I can't do that, angel. I always have to keep thinking you're fine. Always."

"..."

"Angel?"

"Dear."

"Maybe, do you think... Wait, I should keep my voice down this time... Think that we could find a way to sever one of those arteries? There should be a tool shed around here somewhere, right?"

"There should be, yes."

"Right, let's go."

"Wouldn't it be easier to get up from the table if we let go of each other's hands first? It'll only be for a moment."

"We are not letting go of each other's hands."

"Thank you, my dear."

–––

"Why do you think the creature didn't come near us even once out there, not even when we took these axes?" asked Crowley.

"Because it knows the two of us are no longer afraid. Or perhaps, rather, because someone wants to help us, just as they let the light of the stars pierce through the illusion," said Aziraphale.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter Eleven_

_–––_

"Dear?" asked Aziraphale as he followed Crowley down the steps.

"Yes?"

"You do realise that, according to what you told me, we'll hardly be able to hear each other down there, don't you?"

"Angel, I know we'll hardly be able to hear _ourselves_ down there."

"So we're clear on the plan, then?"

"_Yes_, we've been _over_ this. Jump into the pit, land on the heart, locate the main arteries, and chop them wide open. Simple. And when the heart's dead, we'll get out powers back and then we'll be able to fly out of here. Job done."

"...oh, _God_."

"What is it?"

"Crowley, can you honestly believe any of this is actually happening? That we're even having this conversation? Crowley... Are we even still sane?"

Crowley turned, stopped Aziraphale, and said, "Angel. You'll be fine. We'll both be. Because when we get home, we're going to talk about this, all of it, until we've got it sorted out. So even if our sanity's taken a punch, it'll get better. We'll be okay, angel. Trust me."

"You know I do. Always."

"...let's just keep going."

"Of course, dear boy."

"And don't let go of my hand until it's absolutely necessary."

"I won't."

–––

With every pressure on its surface, the heart began to beat a little faster, a current of blind, mindless feral panic swelling in its veins. The small hot burning thing from earlier had merely pricked and confused it, but this was something more.

"Crowley, I can't keep standing on this thing!"

"Keep going, we're almost there!"

The heart couldn't understand the meaning of the sound vibrations its sensitive membranes were picking up, but it knew that they weren't as high as the ones from the food things its servant usually brought it. These were different things, and the heart was afraid for the first time in its existence.

"But this is... this is enormous!"

"I told you!"

But the heart had never felt fear before, and, dumb animal that it was, failed to grasp what it might presage. It grew tired of the unknown, tiringly strong feeling, and simply forgot about it in favour of hunger. Hunger, it was comfortable with. Hunger, it did understand. It was hungry. It would send out its servant for more food.

"Oh, thank goodness, it's easing down!"

"Good, because here we are! Cut in!"

Food much food and oh no what this no couldn't pain blood the blood the blood _pain_...

"Don't stop!"

"I'm not!"

Wider wider wider and it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it...

"Crowley!"

"Aziraphale!"

Blood spasm blood spasm blood spurting pain pain pain stop blood no couldn't was going to blood flow contraction spasm blood draw in what it could more more the _blood_...

"Grab my ha-"

The heart swelled like a balloon, shuddered, and _burst_.

–––

No-one in the area around the forest was awake to see the enormous red geyser shooting a hundred feet into the air that night. Even if they had been, they'd have thought they were dreaming.


	12. Chapter 12

_This is it, guys, the last one!_

_I hope you enjoyed, and got some nice scares out of it. Being scared by a story is fun._

_Thanks to everybody who's read my story! You guys are the greatest. Bye bye!_

_EDIT: More fanart by Jean-Claude17!_

_jean-claude17. deviantart gallery/ #/ d5md4uu  
jean-claude17. deviantart gallery/ #/ d5md5lb_

_Thank you!_

_–––_

_Chapter Twelve_

_–––_

When dawn broke, they were sitting atop a low hill, watching the sun rise over the fields. Insects were buzzing round early autumn flowers, and there was a bird singing in a nearby copse. The sun was warm. It promised to be a nice day. Unfortunately, the angel and demon were rather too shell-shocked to really notice.

Crowley was the first to speak. "I don't believe it," he said, staring straight ahead.

"Believe what, dear?" Aziraphale asked absently, eyes similarly fixed on nothing.

"You were right. It was just an illusion. The forest, the tunnels, the cave, the house... Fake, all of it. I don't even remember how we got out of there, the heart exploded, I was knocked out, and then we were here all of a sudden."

"And still holding hands."

"Yes. Yes, that's true too. I... Aziraphale, what _happened_ here tonight?"

Aziraphale sighed, then yawned, exhaustion finally taking hold of him. "It wasn't _all_ fake, dear. The heart, the dead children, the... the blood..." He took a few deep breaths.

Crowley looked over and put a hand on Aziraphale's back. "Are you going to be sick again, angel?"

"N-no, dear, I'm fine. I'm fine. At least we were able to... miracle ourselves clean."

Crowley shook his head. "I can still feel it sticking to my skin."

"So can I. Which is why we're going to burn these clothes."

"And scrub ourselves sore?"

"And scrub ourselves sore."

"That's good."

A brief pause, then, "Crowley?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think was behind that cellar door?"

"What cellar door?"

"The one in the house."

Crowley pondered this for a moment. "Was it near the middle of the house?"

"I think so, yes."

"Then the cellar was right over the middle of the heart, and it was probably just a last-ditch pit to get rid of any children who'd come that far, nothing more. Can we drop the subject for now?"

"Please, yes."

Another pause.

"Aziraphale? Are you _sure_ we weren't just having the same crazy nightmare? There's no trace at all left of any of it. Even the hole in the ground is gone."

"Quite sure. And that one remaining trace over there proves it."

Aziraphale pointed down towards the foot of the hill. Crowley looked, and saw the faceless creature standing there, gently swaying and flickering in the strengthening light. A ray of sunshine broke through a cloud then and hit it full force, and the entity fell apart, the pieces disintegrating and being blown away on the breeze like dust. Crowley _blinked_.

"So... It's over now?"

"Yes, dear," said Aziraphale, and flopped on his back in the warm grass. "It's over."

"We did it?"

Aziraphale smiled. "We did it."

Crowley grinned, and lay down next to Aziraphale, the two of them basking in the sunshine and in the knowledge that they were both still alive and _there_, side by side.

It was almost noon before Aziraphale said, "Dear?"

"Hmph?" said Crowley. He'd dozed off.

"Do you remember where we left the car?"

Crowley waved vaguely off to the left. "Somewhere over there."

"Oughtn't we to get going? I for one wouldn't mind a good meal."

"Sounds good," said Crowley, sitting up and stretching. "Just... no spaghetti bolognese."

Aziraphale almost gagged. "Certainly not," he said, sitting up as well.

"Aziraphale?"

"Mmm?"

"I don't... have to go to my flat tonight, do I? I don't think I could stand being alone yet. Not in the dark, not yet."

Aziraphale looked at him, head tipped to one side, then pulled Crowley into a hug. "Absolutely not, dear boy. I don't want to be without you either."

Crowley unfroze, and hugged Aziraphale back. "Thank you."

A few minutes later, they got up and left.

It was a nice day.


End file.
